


The Perfect Disease

by EvelynEvening



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvelynEvening/pseuds/EvelynEvening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just a silly little crush; something inappropriate and fleeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Disease

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic, woo! I wrote it in the middle of the night, so if it's terrible and clichéd (which it is, God it is), I'm using that as an excuse. I might make a few changes to it later, when I've had a decent amount of sleep and a new perspective, but I wanted to post this now so I didn't chicken out in the morning.
> 
> I also didn't intend my first fic to be Whitechapel, but there you go. I love these guys c:

This is the best part, he knows, it’s good for him. Even if it leaves him with a gaping hole somewhere in the vicinity of his small intestine. Even though his fingers feel a little numb and his breathing is slightly laboured. 

It was just a silly little crush; something inappropriate and fleeting. He thought it would pass soon enough, as all momentary infatuations do. But as the months passed and the falling leaves turned to snowflakes, they spent more and more time together, the “momentary” infatuation became something more; something irrevocable. It sounds like a cliche, but his mind became consumed with thoughts of _him_ \- the way he moved, the suits he wore, the flecks of lighter colour in his irises, the little half smile he sometimes wore (just a slight upwards tug and a delicate curve of those soft lips). He even thought of the way his hair moved, for Christ’s sake. A small bounce, not even half a second after he moves.

If their eyes met from across the room, his mind immediately conjured snapshots of moments that could have been. Silly things, really - picnics in the warm glow of a summer’s afternoon; a holiday in the Mediterranean, his skin tanned and glowing; late mornings with breakfast in bed; lazy days spent curled together on the sofa, watching whatever mindless programs the television threw at them. In every imagining his mouth was pulled wide in a bright and contented smile. All ridiculous thoughts, really. Stupid. 

He had tried, he _really_ had. He had tried to stop his mind from impersonating a teenage girl’s. He had tried to stop his fantasies from lulling him to sleep at night. He had tried to stop his heart from bruising his rib cage whenever they were in close proximity. It really wasn't conducive to a productive working relationship. 

He knew it wasn't appropriate. He knew all the reasons that made it so - the age gap, the difference in rank, the fact that the police force isn’t exactly known for its tolerance towards these sorts of situations. He knew that even if their relationship did develop into something more, it would be difficult. They both had their problems, their… idiosyncrasies. There was no guarantee that it would work.

But despite all that, there was always a little voice in the back of his head, poisoning his rationality, killing his common sense. He knew what it was, it had made it’s presence known before and he hated it; loathed it. It was _hope_.

That was when he gave up.

He stopped trying all together. He let the fantasies play on repeat in his mind, fading around the edges over time like a film reel. He embraced his racing heart and let the jittery nerves spur him on, giving him the boost he needed to get through his days. He let the hope envelope him. It made him nervous, excited, nauseous, exhilarated. After all, there was always a _chance_ it could happen. Wasn't there? 

So he started making an effort to be as close together as possible, without raising any suspicion. He increased the frequency of casual contact between them - a brush of fingers when passing a cup of tea or a pen; an “accidental” bump of elbows when they were stood close to each other. Their conversations were still about work, but every now and then some small piece of personal information would loose itself from his lips (a favourite colour, how annoying his neighbours could be, etc.). And it might have been his imagination, but he swore we was on the receiving end of that shy half-smile more frequently. It made him feel _giddy_ , like a bloody child on Christmas Eve.

It probably _was_ his imagination, he realises now. Looking back, he knows he’s been a fool - a complete idiot, to be honest.

He was standing at the whiteboards when it happened, looking over the evidence from a cold case they had been lumped with. _He_ had walked through the doors to incident room with a grin on his face that would have lit up the whole of London it if had the chance. Nobody had really noticed him at first, not until Mansell looked up and asked, “What are you so happy about, then?”

“I'm engaged,” Kent held up his left hand, showing off the polished gold band around his finger. His smile grew impossibly wider. Riley let out a noise close to a shriek and bulldozed him into a hug. Mansell was in a state of near comical disbelief and Miles just looked confused.

“Well, how come _you_ have the ring, then?” the DS queried, “Isn't your girlfriend supposed to have it?”

“It’s _fiancée_ now, isn't it Em?” Riley interjected, beaming at the young constable, “God, I'm just so happy for you!” She gave him another fierce hug.

Kent looked sheepish when he replied but his smile never wavered, “She, uh, proposed to me, Skip.”

Miles grumbled something about _all this new wave, pansy bollocks_ but clapped Kent on the shoulder and congratulated him nonetheless.

Chandler was still standing in front of the whiteboards, frozen in place. He watched on as he felt his throat dry up and his heart plummet, sending an unpleasant tingling throughout his limbs. His lungs abruptly stopped working as all the oxygen left the room. He hadn't even known that Kent was seeing anyone, let alone in a serious relationship. They just never talked about those things. Chandler blinked when he realised the others were staring at him expectantly. He found that Kent’s smile had replicated itself on the faces of all the officers in the room.

Chandler cleared his throat, tried to dislodge the lump that was there. He forced a smile, somehow managed a clipped “Congratulations,” and walked away, into his office. He collapsed in his chair and that’s where he stayed for the remainder of the day; a self-imposed exile.

That’s where he is now, long after the team had gone out to celebrate with Kent. His hands are folded together, his elbows on the desk and his eyes closed. He knows this needs to happen, that it’s good for him, really. He was deluding himself; he’s not suited for relationships. He embraces the now-dull ache in chest, let’s the feeling sink in. He makes sure the way he is now, this useless being that feels numb in his extremities and eviscerated at his core, will be etched in his memory and serve as a reminder. A reminder to never be this foolish again. 

He’ll get up soon, collect himself and his things and go home. Just as soon as he can open his eyes.


End file.
